Women.
I do not write about them.
I am carved by them.
Every song I’ve ever screamed,
every bone I’ve ever broken—
was for her.
The she I never touch.
The she I ruin myself for.
The she I dream about eating.
They are not angels.
They are not victims.
They are not mine.
They are knives with perfume.
They are graves with lace.
They are softness that will not break
even if you press your whole body into it,
even if you beg.
Especially if you beg.
I’ve seen a woman open her thighs like a cathedral.
I’ve seen a woman spit on a king.
I’ve seen a woman press her heel
into the face of a man who thought he owned her.
And I loved her for it.
Because she was still singing.
I have loved whores and saints,
and they were the same person
on different nights.
They don’t need me.
They don’t need anything.
But I would cut out my tongue
to be their silence.
Because a woman’s body—
a real woman, not a girl—
carries death inside it.
And she still gives life.
You understand?
That is not poetry.
That is fucking god.
